The Way Things Might Have Been
by Novacaine Child
Summary: Set after the movie. Madame Giry visits the Phantom, to try to recapture their friendship. The Phantom is more interested in mourning Christine. A bit angsty.


**Hello, Phantom fans. (Is it just me who finds the word "Phans" annoying?) I have a little angsty oneshot for you, a quick look at how the relationship between our hero and Mme Giry dwindled and the feelings surrounding it. It's sad- Don't read it if you don't like misery. (But then how on Earth did you stomach the movie?)**

**Disclaimed: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any related characters. I suspect that the pain of this is similar to Phantom's in releasing Christine. **

"Erik!" the woman's voice rang out through thin lips as the Phantom threw sheet music down on the cold stone. It had been a week since the fire had finally run out of fuel, leaving an empty shell of a once beautiful opera house. A week since the mob had searched everywhere but behind the mirror where he had crawled into to die. A week since Christine had left with Raoul.

He ignored her as she scoldingly called for him to refrain from his violent activity. There was no point anymore, no point to anything. No music could sooth him, not a single composition could echo the way that Christine had torn his heart from his chest. He had been disappointed to find that the notion of dying of a broken heart was perhaps too romanticized, and that the loss of Christine could torture him, perhaps to madness, but never actually kill him. He cursed the injustice.

And this woman, Madame Giry. She had come down to his pitiful home, for a purpose unknown to him, with a sad smile. She had jumped, fearfully, and stepped backward a little when he stood from his position in the bed that would have been for Christine, but did not shriek or flinch. He had been surprised; his mask lay, obsolete and purposeless on the floor, and his face must have seemed even more hideous that usual since the rage after the day that Christine left, the one that left him helpless to do anything but try to rip away the deformity with his fingernails. He was bloody, fleshier than usual. More human, except not. An object to be pitied and feared, not comforted and loved.

"Yes?" he had asked, tiredly. Madame Giry did not visit anymore. She hadn't since Eric had begun to show an interest in Christine. Erik supposed that she had found a great deal of work to occupy her when the new managers had arrived, teaching them the ways of the opera house and training her little ballet fleet into something mildly impressive to make her impression on the intolerable Andre and Firman. It was odd that she had decided to come down, especially with her hair loose. She wore navy too, instead of her ballet uniform, and Erik thought vaguely that he had seen a snatch of her past, before ballet took over her life. Before she stopped going out, before Meg's father had died. When she still had life in her.

"I wondered if you were still here," she had offered, in response to his brisk question. He had felt fury rise within him for what may have been the sixth or seventh time that morning, a rage so white hot that it gripped him and shook him, forced his hands into fists, pushed him onto his feet.

"Where else would I go?" he had bit miserably, and she had bowed her head. There was a blue flower in her hair, Erik saw, and somehow the sight of it had drained him once again. He'd wondered vaguely why Madame Giry had dressed herself so, when it was only a visit to his dank dwellings, and after all, she only wore black nowadays. "Yes, I'm still here," he had sighed, slumping back onto the silk sheets.

She had nodded miserably, and looked up at him below heavy eyelids. "I meant… that they never found you after the fire, _monsieur_. I thought perhaps you… you had perished." She had choked a little on her words, and he'd looked up at her with an apathetic kind of curiosity.

"I did not perish," he'd murmured. "Perhaps… If there was any justice in this world… but sadly, no." He had sighed heavily, Christine's name on his lips, and buried his face into his open palms. Madame Giry had looked on hopelessly.

"I wish you would not say these things, _monsieur_. I… I worried," she'd admitted, averting her eyes. Madame Giry was not a coy woman, but she had an appreciation for the Phantom's moods, having grown up alongside him. She knew about his unpredictability, and about how slight comments could enflame his anger.

"You did not worry," Erik had insisted boredly. "Nobody worries about a creature like myself, _Madame_."

"I remember when you used to call me Antoinette," she'd sighed gently. He had glanced up at her, frowning.

"What does that matter?"

"We used to be friends, Monsieur. And now we act so formally around one another. How did this happen?"

"We grew older, Madame." The Phantom had spoken monotonously, making it clear that the subject bored him. "We learned that it is appropriate to address adults with whom we do not often socialise by their correct title. Why do you bother yourself with such trivial things?"

"You bother yourself with thoughts of your loneliness. You stay here, tormented. You forget that once I took you away from that place where they beat you, and I gave you food and books. I told you stories. I sewed you new clothes and taught you how to do it yourself. I helped you to remember your name. Erik," she'd murmured. "Look at me."

He had looked up at her, feeling as though he would give anything just to be left alone again. Her voice was irritating him, like an insect droning in his ear.

"It was a long time ago, Madame. We grew older, you married. You concentrated on Meg and saw me less frequently. Years passed and I noticed Christine."

"Christine is gone," Madame Giry said shrilly. "She is gone and she _will not come back!"_

Phantom had flung himself onto his feet with an anguished roar.

"I know that! Don't you think I realise that Christine is gone?" he had bellowed. Madame Giry, to her credit, had not cowered beneath his scream, until he picked up his music box and thrown it against the walls of the cave. As the monkey's cymbals struck the stone, the sinister, crashing chime made her shiver.

And now, here she stood before him, watching with horror as he tore the dwelling apart before her. It had shown some signs of abuse when she had first arrived (a ripped pillowcase, shards of glittering crockery on the floor) but the destruction she witnessed now made her lose her composure entirely.

"Stop! Erik, stop at once," she shrieked, making gestures as though she wanted to physically restrain him, but daring not to step any closer as he hurled his personal effects around the room. The scattered music at her feet made her heart clench, as she followed agonised tunes with her eyes. The thought of her Erik in so much pain made her head ache, and she longed for him to stop this rampage.

At last, his movements began to slow, and he grew weary as the rage, once again, deserted him. He dropped a potted vase from his fingers, where it fell a short distance and shattered loudly, as he swayed tiredly.

"Why do you say these things?" he asked, dully. She blinked.

"She is gone, Erik. You must come to terms with it. I, however, am still here. The only one who is." She regarded him grimly, then stepped a little closer. He watched her wearily, his vision fixing on the sway of her skirts.

"It matters not," he intoned. "Christine does not love me. The affection of any other person is irrelevant, and will not revive me from this state of hopelessness."

"Not even an affection as deep as love?" Madame Giry demanded, her eyes trained on Phantom's. He flicked a glance at her, surprise barely gracing his features.

"No. Only Christine's can help me. It must be God's will that I suffer always."

"Listen to me," Madame Giry murmured, with some dignity. "I love you. You were my closest friend, throughout my childhood, my adolescence, my short relationship with Meg's father… You may not have Christine, but you can still have human warmth. I will take Christine's place in your heart, and be a more accomplished wife than she. I am practiced, Erik, in things that Miss Daaé probably has not yet experienced…"

"I have no interest in such practices," Erik said, listlessly. "Nor have I any interest in your "warmth." I long for Christine and only her. Perhaps before, a woman would have appealed. Now, I see no other but Miss Daaé."

"_La Vicomtesse de Changy_, you mean," Madame Giry hissed spitefully, stepping back from Erik angrily. "After everything I have done-"

"And what is it that you have done?" Erik shouted suddenly, grasping her wrist in one strong hand. "Desert my friendship in favour of another man? Watch my every advance towards Christine with envious eyes? Direct the Vicomte to my home, so that he might save her from my _wicked _clutches?"

"You notice nothing," the woman retaliated, ripping her arm from his. "You never tried to tutor me, although I would have been happy to learn. And so I took it upon myself to become one of the greatest Ballerinas in all of France. You never applauded my dancing, your eyes were trained always on the chorus girls!"

"_You_ are too stubborn to learn, if it is not by your own conditions," Erik sneered. "And my eyes sought Christine alone, because of her ability. Leave me. I have no interest in your love. Christine possesses talent and beauty far beyond your own."

"Then what about Meg?" Madame Giry threw, eyes glittering with rage. "My daughter. She is more beautiful than Christine, the managers think so. She dances like an angel and she has a sweet voice. She was envious of Christine's tutor, she would have loved to have learned…"

"Meg's talent is dancing. Her voice has a pleasant tone, but she could never be exceptional, not the way Christine was. Christine was a woman when Meg was still a girl. She had beauty and maturity beyond her years-"

"It is a shame that you will never set eyes on her again, then," Madame Giry scowled, stepping back into the Gondola which would lead to an ashy path back to civilization.

Phantom only sighed at her last comment and sank back down onto the bed, the sound of Christine's voice throbbing through his thoughts. As his aria "Think of Me" soared like a sharp knife through his flesh he waded through the water and, desolately, fingered the lasso that had once lain around Raoul's neck. With a silent nod, he acknowledged that it was probably still strong enough to carry him to the place where he and Christine made the most beautiful music together. It slipped easily over his head.

**Hope you enjoyed it, please _please _review. It'll take you less than 3 minutes and make me oh-so pathetically happy. :)**


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